


Baking is Whisky Business

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Fluff, M/M, POV Derek, Romance, like seriously none, there is no angst here, unless you count subpar tea and baking messes and being forced to wait for hot cookies to cool down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: But Stiles’ most distinguishing feature, besides the pretty eyes and the mussed hair? He makes a fucking mess every time he bakes, and Derek is the unlucky soul who’s stuck cleaning up after him. Seriously, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Stiles was doing it just to screw with him.(Or, the one in which Stiles is a Great British Bake Off contestant, and Derek is the long-suffering production assistant.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this *amazing* list](http://leslieknopeismyspiritanimal.tumblr.com/post/150508545096/great-british-bake-off-aus) of GBBO-inspired prompts on Tumblr, and I just couldn’t resist! That show is fucking delightful, and you should really watch it if you haven’t. (Can you _imagine_ how much Mel and Sue would love Stiles?!) And feel free to envision them with glorious British accents. :) I’m _not_ British, though, so I made no attempts with British slang or the like. My apologies. (Edited to add: like, at _all_. Somehow I managed to make this as American as possible. I'm sorry!)
> 
>  
> 
> _I’m in charge of clean up for the show and you are by far the messiest contestant I have ever had the displeasure to clear up after… you’re also apparently adequate enough at baking that this has been going on for weeks now so this is becoming  problem… the moment I work up the nerve to talk to you about it you exhibit the level of assholishness I have come to expect from you and smile attractively, apologize, and then do the exact same fucking thing_
> 
>  
> 
> (And, yes, I know the title is ridiculous, but it makes me laugh every time I see it, so.)

“Cut!”

As soon as the director yells and the cameras turn away, Derek springs into action and starts gathering bowls and pans.

“Hi, Derek,” Stiles says in a sing-song voice as Derek approaches his station, and he bites his lip to stop from smiling.

“Hello, Stiles. Made a mess again today, I see,” he says dryly, eyeing the dough spatters all over his station.

Not that Derek would ever _tell_ anyone this, but Stiles is his favorite contestant. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous, sure, all lean and tall with broad shoulders. But Stiles’ most distinguishing feature, besides the pretty eyes and the mussed hair? He makes a fucking _mess_ every time he bakes, and Derek is the unlucky soul who’s stuck cleaning up after him. Seriously, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Stiles was doing it just to screw with him.

“Sorry there, buddy,” Stiles says with a grin. “But you know what they say, there’s no genius without mess.”

“I don’t think anyone actually says that,” Derek points out. “But congrats on Star Baker.”

“Aw, thanks,” Stiles says, ducking his head as he nibbles on one of his leftover biscotti. Derek piles all of the utensils into the dirty mixing bowl and groans inwardly at his own dumb crush. Stiles is rakishly charming and endlessly endearing—no matter how loath Derek is to admit it—and he knows that as soon as this season airs, Stiles will immediately become the fan favorite. Derek’s a little pissed that it’s working on him so easily, actually.

“You want one?”

“Huh?” Derek asks, looking up from where he’s been starting to wipe down Stiles’ countertop. Stiles is holding out a biscotti, as if on offer, and Derek has to stop himself from just leaning forward and eating it right out of his hand.

“Uh, what are the flavors again?” he asks, as if he didn’t spend every spare second of the last few hours focused on Stiles.

“Pistachio-cranberry,” Stiles says, pointing, “and coconut-almond. Here, have one of each.”

Derek picks a pistachio one and crunches down carefully. _Wow_ , that’s good—it’s crunchy and crumbly, and the flavors work together perfectly.

“They’re better with coffee or tea,” Stiles says apologetically, but Derek shakes his head swallows.

“They’re great, really. I love biscotti—my grandmother used to make ginger ones.”

Stiles grins and opens his mouth to respond.

“Stiles!”

The shout comes from another PA across the tent, and Stiles curses under his breath. “Shit, I gotta go,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll see you next weekend?”

Derek tries to convince himself that he’s imagining the hopeful lilt in Stiles’ voice, and he nods. “Yep.”

“Awesome,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder as he backs away. “Have a good week!”

* * *

By the time the next weekend rolls around, Derek is more excited than he probably should be for what will surely be a grueling 48 hours. He’s a production assistant, technically, but really is just a glorified dishwasher and kitchen gopher. Everything looks perfect on camera, but there’s a lot going on behind the scenes to make sure that the bakers have everything they need and to keep everything looking pristine.

Stiles had done a great job with the technical challenge, no surprise, but it had, much to Derek’s chagrin, involved caramel. Fucking _caramel_ , which is practically impossible to chisel out of the pots and pans, and Derek sighs as he starts to stack bowls in his arms.

Stiles is already gone by the time Derek reaches his station, probably off doing his on-camera interviews, and he tamps down on the disappointment. He funnels that frustration into scrubbing the pots, getting lost in it to such a degree that he almost jumps when someone pops up behind him.

“Hi, there.”

It’s Stiles, and Derek is suddenly very aware of how tired and worn-out he probably looks, his sloppy shirt splattered with dishwater and everything. “Hey,” he says, surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

Stiles shrugs. “They did my interviews and voiceover stuff first, so I’m bored.”

“I already spend a lot of time cleaning your messes, I don’t think it’s in my job description to entertain you, also,” Derek says, even though there’s really nothing else he’d rather do.

Laughing, Stiles lifts himself up on the counter and drums his heels against the cabinet below him. “How did you end up cleaning up after me anyway?”

“It was my life’s calling, surely,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles cracks up.

“But seriously.”

“ _But seriously_ ,” he repeats, making Stiles laugh again. “My sister works for the show, on the marketing side, and they needed someone, so she basically just told me that this was my job now.”

“So you can’t stand up to your sister,” Stiles says, nodding. “Good to know.”

Derek glares at him. “You know, if you’re just going to sit there,” he says, throwing a dishcloth at him, “ _especially_ if you’re just going to sit there and make fun of me, you can help.”

Stiles grins and obediently hops down from the countertop. He stands next to Derek, bumping their shoulders together, and reaches for a dirty pan. “At your service, sir.”

“You really don’t—you don’t have to,” he says, swallowing, but Stiles shakes his head.

“You’re not stopping me now, I do a mean job with a sponge,” he says. “So is TV production your big dream, then? This is just you working your way up the ladder?”

Derek snorts and shakes his head. “No, I’m a freelance journalist. Mostly long-form magazine pieces.”

“Oh, wow, that’s really awesome.”

“Thanks. I really am just doing this because they really needed someone.”

“Well that’s nice of you,” Stiles says. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s fun,” Derek admits.

“Even though you have to clean up after me?” he asks, batting his eyelashes, and Derek laughs.

“Unfortunately, yes. But it would really help if you could try to be a _little_ neater.”

Stiles hums. “No promises.”

It’s a dreary day, and the thrumming of the rain against the sides of the tent makes for a cozy atmosphere. Stiles shivers, which Derek can feel from where their shoulders are pressed against each other, and he turns to look at him.

“You cold?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, putting a little space between them. “I’m gonna make some tea.”

“Tea?”

“We’re in the English countryside,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You’re never that far from tea.”

Derek nods, concedes the point. “There’s got to be a kettle around here somewhere.”

Stiles tosses his dish towel over Derek’s shoulder with a fond pat and starts poking through the cabinets. Derek quickly turns back to the dishes when he finds himself a little too fixated on the strip of skin above Stiles’ waistband that’s visible when he crouches down.

“A-ha!” he says, his voice muffled as he rummages through a lower cabinet. He emerges with a kettle held victoriously over his head, which he fills quickly and sets on the stove. “Halfway there. Tea?”

“Check the pantry,” Derek says, jutting his chin in that direction. Stiles comes back a minute later, brandishing a half-empty box of black tea bags.

“I found some, these will have to do.”

He also has a plastic bag clutched in his other hand, and Derek looks questioningly at it. “What’s that?”

Stiles clears his throat and leans back against the counter, fiddling with zip-top of the bag. “You said you liked biscotti,” he says quietly. “So I made you some.”

Derek blinks and almost drops the mixing bowl in his hands. He quickly finishes rinsing it and sets it in the drying rack. “Yeah?”

“M-hmm. Chocolate gingerbread.”

Holy shit. Derek wipes his hands and tries to calm his racing heart. “You remembered what I said about my grandmother.”

The blush on Stiles’ cheeks is splotchy and completely endearing, and Derek can’t help wonder what else he can do to put it there. “I just—I appreciate what you do, you know? And I wanted to say thanks.”

“Can I—?” he asks, reaching, and Stiles eagerly holds the bag out toward him. Derek takes one, snaps it in half, and hands the other piece to Stiles. He takes a bite and has to stop himself from groaning. “Wow. That is _really_ good.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, grinning, and Derek laughs.

“Yeah. But you know exactly how good they are.”

Derek suddenly realizes that they’re standing _very_ close to each other, nearly toe-to-toe, and he can’t make himself stop staring at Stiles’ pink, pink lips. He notices, then, when Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet them, and he snaps out of his daze. “I’m really glad that you like them,” Stiles says softly. “I—”

The tea kettle begins to whistle, making them both startle, and Stiles jumps away from him to grab it. Derek turns away and runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. He is an _adult_ , this is ridiculous. He goes to grab the sugar and cream, welcoming the blast of cool air from the fridge.

Stiles has poured tea for them both and has both elbows propped on the counter, idly stirring his own mug. Derek does _not_ stare at his ass, no matter how nicely he’s presenting it, and just sets the cream and sugar next to him. “Thanks,” he says, and Derek nods.

“You made tea just for an excuse to give me biscotti, didn’t you?”

Stiles blushes again, as if on cue, and Derek grins. “Maybe. But you have to be nice to me, otherwise you can’t have them.”

“Oh, no way,” Derek says, snatching the bag from Stiles’ grip. “They’re mine now, no take-backs.”

“No _take-backs_?” Stiles repeats. “How old are you, six?”

Derek mirrors Stiles’ position and pointedly takes one biscotti out of the bag. “Be nice or you can’t have one,” he parrots, dunking the cookie into his tea, and Stiles rolls his eyes. The tea is pretty weak, probably old, but the biscotti are delicious and so Derek isn’t complaining.

“You’re the worst,” he says, reaching over Derek to get his own biscotti. Derek pointedly doesn’t move out of the way.

“Pretty strange thing to say about someone that you baked for.”

“I’m regretting that decision immensely,” Stiles says, but he’s grinning and Derek doesn’t really believe him.

* * *

“I was neater this time!” Stiles protests the following weekend, and Derek raises an eyebrow at him as he looks around pointedly. There’s chocolate _everywhere_ , in practically every form. Half-melted chips scattered over the stove, shavings dusted all around the countertop, and enough melted chocolate to make his station look like a Jackson Pollock painting.

“Oh, really?”

“It could have been worse!” he insists.

“Yeah?” Derek says, licking his thumb and reaching out to rub at Stiles’ cheekbone. “There’s chocolate all over your face, you’re like a child.”

Stiles frowns and scrubs at his face. Derek probably shouldn’t find it as adorable as he does. “I can help you clean up,” he says, and Derek laughs.

“I was just teasing,” he says softly. “Don’t be silly, go do whatever you have to do.”

Stiles opens his mouth but seems to think better of it and nods instead. “I’ll come say hi later,” he promises, with a little smile, and Derek smiles helplessly back.

“Okay.”

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Derek’s done with most of his dishes and heads over to the fridge with a spring in his step. The crew usually gets first dibs on the leftover bakes, and before anyone else could get to it, Derek snagged a piece of Stiles’ chocolate fudge cake to save for later.

“I can see you, you know.”

The voice comes from behind him, and Derek freezes with the first bite halfway to his mouth. He turns around slowly to see Stiles grinning at him, his arms crossed over his chest. He strolls over and hops up on the counter next to him, gesturing. “Please, don’t let me stop you. I need to know how it really compares to everyone else’s.”

“I didn’t try anyone else’s,” Derek says, and before he can stop himself, “I only care about yours.”

Stiles looks fucking _delighted_ , though, so Derek can’t quite make himself regret it. “Then I really hope you like it.”

Derek picks the fork back up and takes a careful bite. There are all sorts of textures, cake and fudge and ganache, and he _does_ moan a little this time. “Amazing. Is there coffee in this?” he asks, and Stiles nods, looking a little surprised.

“Yeah, there is. How could you tell?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s my favorite trick for baking with chocolate. It makes it taste…just more chocolately, I guess.”

“Holy shit, you bake?” Stiles asks, his eyes wide, and Derek nods.

“Yeah. I mean—not like _you_ ,” he adds quickly, “but I do.”

“Dude, we should bake something!”

Derek laughs at Stiles’ enthusiasm. “What, like right now?”

“Uh, hello, yes,” he says, spreading his arms. We’re in a kitchen!”

Derek looks around and hesitates. “I don’t know…I should probably—”

“Oh, come on. Do you have anything else to do?”

Derek sighs. “Not really,” he admits. His share of the dishes is done, and all he has left to do is finish wiping up Stiles’ station.

“ _Please_?” Stiles says, clasping his hands together. He actually pouts, and Derek bites his own lip, wishing it was Stiles’.

“Okay,” he says impulsively. “Okay, fine.”

Stiles pumps his fist and grins. “Awesome. Okay, what are we baking? Probably something that doesn’t take too long, we shouldn’t press our luck.”

“You pick,” he says, and Stiles hums.

“I miss baking simple stuff,” he confesses. “Like cookies. Chocolate chip?”

“With peanut butter,” Derek says decisively. “And oats.”

Stiles laughs. “Deal. You got a recipe?”

“Yep,” Derek says, turning toward the fridge. “I’ll get the wet ingredients, you get the dry.”

It’s easy baking with Stiles, bumping elbows and hands and shoulders as they alternately measure ingredients into the bowl. Stiles flicks several handfuls of flour at him, and Derek retaliates with a smear of peanut butter on Stiles’ forearm. Joke’s on him, though, and he has to turn away as Stiles twists his arm to lick it off.

They somehow manage to get the dough together and scooped onto the cookie sheet, and Stiles bends over to slide the pan into the oven. Derek sets a timer before Stiles distracts him and he forgets about it.

“You a batter-eater?” Derek asks.

“Why, Mr. Hale,” Stiles drawls, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think it’s a little early in our relationship to be asking me that?”

Derek flushes a deep red and coughs. “I _meant_ —wait, how do you know my last name?”

“No reason,” Stiles says quickly. “Now what were you saying about batter?”

Derek tilts the bowl toward him, and Stiles nods. “Haven’t died of salmonella yet,” he says.

“Then lick the spoon,” Derek says, thrusting it gently into his mouth. Stiles sputters but takes it, licking the dough off with more vigor and thoroughness than is probably necessary. Fuck.

Derek quickly cleans their mixing bowl, taking a finger swipe of dough for himself, and then slouches against the counter next to Stiles. “What’s your favorite type of cookie?” he asks, and Derek points at the oven.

“Oatmeal chocolate chip. I got burned so many times as a kid, thinking cookies were oatmeal chocolate chip when they were really oatmeal raisin.”

Stiles laughs. “Ooh, I bet,” he says with a wince. “I hate raisins in cookies.”

“Good,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow and deciding to step out onto the ledge. “Because _that_ would be a deal breaker.”

Stiles grins. “Thank god,” he says, pretending to wipe his forehead. “First crisis averted.”

“And what about you? Favorite cookie?” he asks, and Stiles bites his lip.

“Peanut butter, I think. You know those really basic ones, just peanut butter and sugar and egg? That was the first thing I remember making with my mom, she would let me make the lines with the fork,” he says. He smiles, but it’s a sad one, and Derek thinks he gets it.

“I, uh, used to bake with my mom, too,” Derek says.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, his eyes soft with recognition. He’s pretty sure Stiles picked up on the past tense there.

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

He bumps his shoulder into Stiles’ and leaves it there, hiding his smile when Stiles sags against him. “I hope there’s milk for the cookies,” he says after a minute.

“I think we have every type of milk you can think of,” Derek says, straightening up. “Pick your poison.”

“Uhhh…two percent,” Stiles says finally, and Derek nods.

“Solid choice.” He heads for the fridge and pours two glasses.

“So…I don’t even know where you live,” Stiles says, and Derek doesn’t take the bait, just tilts his head.

“Oh, yeah? Is this you asking?”

Stiles groans and elbows him. “ _Must_ you be difficult?”

“You’ve made my life hell with your messy baking,” Derek shoots back. “So yeah, I have a lot to make up for.”

Stiles laughs, then schools his face into a fake-serious expression. “Then please tell me, Derek, where do you live?”

“London,” he admits. “Fulham.”

Stiles grins. “No shit? I live in Pimlico.”

“Then we’re practically neighbors.”

The timer goes off, so Derek grabs an oven mitt to take the pan out of the oven, then carefully slides each cookie off onto the cooling rack.

“This is the worst part,” Stiles says miserably, staring at the cookies with his chin propped in his hands, and Derek grins.

“You burned your mouth on hot cookies when you were a kid, didn’t you?”

“ _All_ the time,” Stiles confirms. “Still do, actually.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Derek says lowly, and he thoroughly enjoys watching Stiles squirm a little bit, for once.

“Can we eat them now?” he asks, reaching out, but Derek grabs his wrist.

“Another minute.” He squeezes Stiles’ wrist gently, and Stiles twists his hand to tangle their fingers together.

Finally, as much as he enjoys holding Stiles’ hand, Derek can’t take his plaintive looks any longer and lets go. “ _Yesss_ ,” Stiles hisses under his breath, reaching for a cookie and taking a giant bite.

“How are they?” Derek asks, before he takes a normal-sized bite of his own cookie.

“Heavy on the chocolate chips,” he mumbles through a mouthful.

“Maybe because you added _double_ the chocolate chips that I recommended?”

“And is it or is it not delicious?” Stiles counters.

“It’s delicious,” he admits, and Stiles grins. After they each eat another cookie and wash them down with milk, Derek carefully divides the cookies into two plastic containers and hands one to Stiles.

He takes it from him but grabs onto Derek’s hand, holding him there. “So I would really love to just invite you to my hotel room,” Stiles blurts out, all in a rush. “But I don’t know if I can do that. Or am allowed to, really.”

Derek laughs. He couldn’t pull back his grin if he tried. “That might be difficult to pull off. And probably frowned upon.”

“But,” Stiles says, drawing out the word, “since we’re basically neighbors and all, maybe you could come over one night this week? Like for dinner?”

Holy shit, this is happening. Derek crosses his arms and props his hip against the counter, trying not to look _quite_ as enthusiastic as he feels. “Is this you offering to cook for me?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he says, nodding several times.

“But after all this,” Derek says, gesturing to the tent, “don’t you think it’s my turn?”

“You can do it next time,” Stiles says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Plus, you can do the dishes.”

Derek laughs. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

Derek takes two deep breaths before he juggles the items in his hands and knocks on the door. Stiles opens it only a few seconds later, with a wide grin and adorably flushed cheeks. “Hi!

“Wow, it smells good in here,” Derek says, in place of a more appropriate greeting. It’s the best of his options, really, compared to _I would really like to climb you like a tree_ or _please marry me tomorrow_. Stiles laughs, and Derek hands over the bottle of wine that he brought.

“Ooh, thank you. I’m going to make some impressed-sounding noises, even though I know absolutely _nothing_ about wine,” Stiles says cheerfully. “But the label is pretty!”

Derek laughs. “It’s good, I promise,” he says, then awkwardly brings his other hand out from behind his back. “And, uh, I have these.”

“Oh my god, and you brought me _flowers_ ,” Stiles says, snatching them out of Derek’s hands. He ducks his head to smell them and pretends to swoon. “It’s official, you are actually the most adorable person that’s ever existed.”

Derek flushes all the way down to his neck, he can _feel_ it, and Stiles grins. “You look very nice, by the way,” Stiles says approvingly, and Derek tries very hard not to preen a little bit. Stiles has only seen him in casual clothes, mostly jeans and t-shirts, so he maybe went a little overboard with tight gray slacks and a blue button-down.

“Thank you, so do you.” Stiles is wearing his usual khakis, but he’s replaced the usual layers with a snug-fitting button-down.

“Come in, come in. After you, please,” he says with a little flourish. Derek steps through the entryway into the living room, and Stiles lets out a little wolf-whistle from behind him. “This side is nice, too!” he calls out, and Derek flushes.

The apartment is modern, small and mostly tidy with an open floorplan. “Your place is great.”

He raises his eyebrows at the neat cloth box full of colorful children’s toys and turns to Stiles, who laughs. “My best friend and his wife live down the block, they come over with their kid a lot,” he says, still grinning. “But that totally freaked you out for a second, didn’t it?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Kids—kids are awesome, I love kids. I just would’ve been, uh, surprised.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Stiles says, then takes him by the elbow and ushers him into the kitchen. There is a veritable _spread_ of adorable mini tarts all over the counter, and Derek’s eyes widen.

“Oh my god.”

Stiles grins and reaches up to get a vase from a high cabinet. “Next weekend is tarts, and I’ve been practicing.”

“Good call. You don’t want Mary Berry to be complaining about your soggy bottoms,” he deadpans, and Stiles laughs.

“There are _no_ soggy bottoms here,” he says sternly, carrying the flowers to the breakfast bar, which is set with two places. “Mark my words.”

“Hey, wait a second,” Derek says, taking a longer look around the kitchen. Something looks off, and it takes him a second to put his finger on it. The kitchen is _pristine_ , with everything in its place and nary a speck of food or a drop of a spill on the countertops. He slowly turns to Stiles, who is staring down very intently at the floor and looks about two seconds away from actually scuffing his toe. “You made those messes on purpose! I _knew_ it!”

Stiles groans, dropping his head into his hands. “But you were so cute when you complained about it!” he whines. “It was the only way I could get you to come talk to me.”

“You could have done literally anything, and I would have jumped at the chance to talk to you.”

Stiles pauses. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Derek says, then decides to edge out on the branch a little further. It’s a little easier now that he’s _pretty_ sure his feelings are reciprocated. “I’ve had a crush on you since I _saw_ you, practically.”

“Um, ditto,” Stiles says forcefully, and Derek laughs.

“So then you just made me work harder for no reason.”

“But look at all this wonderful food I made!” Stiles says, making a little Vanna White motion toward the spread on the countertop. “We’ll just call it an apology dinner.”

“Well,” Derek says, drawing out the word and pretending to consider, “I _am_ hungry.”

“Awesome, let’s eat. You can get the wine—the opener is in the drawer to the left of the sink, glasses in the cabinet above it.”

Derek does as instructed while Stiles gathers plates and moves the tarts to the bar. He slides onto the bar stool next to Stiles and bumps their knees together. “Cheers.”

Stiles grins and taps his wine glass against Derek’s. “Cheers. Thanks for coming over.”

“Are you kidding, thank _you_ for making all this. What all do we have here?”

Stiles clears his throat dramatically and uses his knife to point. “Here we’ve got a ratatouille situation with eggplant, zucchini, etc., this is an egg-quiche-type thing with mushroom and spinach, and these are chicken and blistered tomato.”

“They all look amazing,” Derek says, especially eyeing the quiche ones.

Stiles makes Derek try them all and asks lots of questions, jotting down little notes on the pad of paper by his elbow. “Are you sure the bottom is crispy enough?”

“I see no sogginess,” he declares, picking up the ratatouille tart to look at the bottom. “It really melts in your mouth, it’s good.”

“Do you prefer that one over the chicken? I used a slightly different method for the pastry.”

Derek hums and takes another bite. “This one might be slightly more tender.”

“Okay, good to know,” he says, making another note.

“I see what this is,” Derek says, licking his thumb just to see Stiles’ reaction. It’s satisfying. “I’m just your guinea pig.”

“You got it, dude,” Stiles says easily. “The good looks and the sparkling conversation…eh, I could take it or leave it. Only here for your taste buds.”

“I _do_ have a very discerning palate,” he says with a sniff, and Stiles grins, gesturing to himself.

“Obviously.”

Derek laughs and pours them each other glass of wine. Stiles is pressed up against him from shoulder to knee, their elbows bumping as they eat, and it’s comfortable and exciting and the best date Derek’s ever been on by a mile. “So I don’t even know what you do.”

“I’m a software engineer for a big start-up.”

Derek nods—he could see Stiles doing that. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I really do,” Stiles says, nodding. “I’m good at it, it’s interesting, it pays well, _and_ I don’t dread going to work every day, which is a lot more than most people can say. But it’s not my dream.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Don’t laugh,” Stiles warns, and Derek mimics zipping his lips shut. “I want to open my own pastry shop.”

“Why would I laugh?” he asks. “That makes perfect sense, of course you should do that. You’re a brilliant baker.”

Stiles nods, determined. “I know, and I will. It just takes time, you know? And a lot of money, obviously. I’ve been saving since I was in college, pretty much.”

 _I have money_ , Derek has to stop himself from saying. “I believe in you,” he says finally, and Stiles’ resulting smile is small and adorable.

“Thanks,” he says. “So now that I know that _you_ bake, what do you like to bake?”

“Mostly bread. I make my own bread every week and also some for my sisters and my friends. I have a sourdough starter that I’ve had for like, two years.”

“Does it have a name?” Stiles asks with a grin, and Derek snorts.

“No, of course not,” he says, cursing the blush he can feel at the tips of his ears.

“Uh, you’re lying. Everyone names their starters, they’re like pets.”

He sighs. “John Dough,” he admits, and Stiles crows. “My nephew named it.”

“John Dough,” he repeats, through his laughter. “Holy shit, that is brilliant. I love it.”

Stiles closes his eyes and hums happily. “What are you doing?” Derek asks warily, and Stiles gestures up-and-down at him—a little off-center considering that his eyes are closed.

“Just imagining you making bread. Mostly the kneading part.”

“But what if I don’t knead by hand?”

“Oh, in my head you do.”

“I do,” Derek admits, scratching at his beard, and Stiles laughs as he opens his eyes.

“You’re the old-fashioned type, I could tell.”

Derek huffs and shakes his head. “These are all delicious, and I want to keep eating,” he admits, pushing his plate away. “But I am officially full.”

Stiles laughs and then gives an exaggerated groan, his eyes sparkling. “Well, you are of _no_ use to me when I’ve used up your taste buds and you’re too full to do anything fun. So you might as well just go now.”

Derek plays along and stands up from the table. “You’re right. I’m pretty tired, anyway.”

He stretches a little, fake-yawns as he heads for the door, and Stiles is laughing as he chases him. He loops his arms around Derek’s neck from behind and nearly jumps on his back.  “I’m just kidding,” he whispers, and Derek laughs.

“Yeah, me too.”

“You better be. I’m not letting you go now,” Stiles says, pressing a light kiss to the nape of Derek’s neck and making him shiver. “You wanna watch a movie? I’m pretty full, too, I need some horizontal digestion time.”

“Sure. But I should go take care of the dishes.”

“You know, I have this new-fangled appliance called a _dishwasher_ , it’s like magic.”

Derek rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles gently toward the living room. “Go pick a movie, I’ll be there in a minute.”

It doesn’t take Derek very long in the kitchen—he just loads their dishes in the dishwasher, wipes up the counter, and washes the one pot in the sink—then he toes his shoes off and joins Stiles in the living room. He has some movie queued up, but Derek couldn’t care less what it is, not with the way Stiles is stretched out on the couch on his side, with a clear spot behind him for Derek.

He smiles and carefully slides into his space, locking his arm around Stiles’ waist and tangling their legs together. Stiles leans back against him with a little hum and starts the movie.

“You better not be falling asleep on me,” he says, about 20 minutes in, and Derek smiles into his hair.

“Most definitely not.”

He decides to prove it by tugging Stiles’ shirt free from his pants and slipping his hand underneath to rest on his stomach. Cognizant of Stiles’ sharp inhale, he just leaves it there for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth of his skin. Eventually he starts moving, just tracing light patterns with his fingertips, and while Stiles fidgets in his grip, he doesn’t say anything.

So Derek keeps going, stroking up to his chest and down to his hips, refusing to increase either the speed or the pressure. When he hits the ribs, Stiles thrashes, and Derek flattens his hand in apology. “You ticklish?” he asks softly, and Stiles nods.

“Just my ribs,” he says, his voice strangled.

Derek skirts away—tickling isn’t really the vibe he’s going for right now—and returns to familiar territory near his navel. He gently tugs on the line of hair there and just barely dips his fingertips under Stiles’ waistband, tracing a leisurely line from hip to hip and back again.

Stiles feels pretty boneless, with a lot of his weight slumped back against Derek, and he keeps letting out these little keening sighs that are equal parts adorable and boner-inducing. Derek’s kryptonite, really.

He slides down a little bit on the couch and tucks his nose against the nape of Stiles’ neck, dragging it up slowly all the way to the back of his ear. He smells really good, actually, like warm food and deodorant and soap, and Derek exhales over his skin before repeating the whole process again.

He replaces his nose with his lips a few passes later, dropping feather-light kisses up and down Stiles’ neck and paying special attention to his freckles. Derek keeps up the movement of his hand the whole time, scratching with his nails every once in a while and enjoying the way it makes Stiles shiver. Stiles has his fingers clutched in the couch now, Derek is pleased to see, and he makes his next line of kisses a little more biting.

All of a sudden, Stiles flips over in a flail of limbs, nearly kneeing Derek in the groin, and locks his hand in Derek’s hair. “Jesus Christ, you—” he gasps, but the rest of the sentence gets lost as he lunges forward and presses their lips together.

Derek grins and moves his hand to the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, adjusting the angle and nudging his mouth open. Stiles takes the invitation and runs with it, and the kiss turns into a luscious slow burn. Stiles is eager, making little noises into Derek’s mouth and pressing their hips close, and Derek just wants to _drown_ in him.

They pull back after a minute to breathe, and Derek can’t stop himself from kissing the edge of Stiles’ grin. “You and your _hands_. I was gonna come from that, I swear,” Stiles says, still a little breathless, “and that would have been very embarrassing.”

“I think you mean hot,” Derek corrects, but he’s met with an eye roll and a string of kisses along his neck. He slides his hand under Stiles’ shirt again, this time on his back, and rakes his nails down, grinning when Stiles’ eyes fall shut as he arches toward him.

“Oh, holy fuck, that feels good.”

“Okay, back scratching, good to know.”

“I would do basically anything for a back scratch,” he says, squirming against Derek’s hand, and he hums.

“I feel like we could exchange some interesting favors that way.”

“You mean like dishes?” Stiles asks, with an impish grin and wide, fake-innocent eyes.

“Yeah, exactly like that.”

Stiles grins and drags his nose up the curve of Derek’s jaw. “You don’t need to bribe me, I would literally _beg_ for the chance to do anything to you.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah. And right now, I’m gonna kiss the shit out of you,” Stiles says. He rearranges their legs and shifts so that he’s flat on his back, pulling Derek on top of him.

“But what about the begging?” he asks, adjusting his weight, and Stiles laughs, exposing the curve of his neck. Unable to resist such an invitation, Derek bends down, rubbing his chin against the pale skin and then kissing the red mark.

“Yeah? Does your ego need that?”

“No,” Derek admits. “I’ll beg _you_ , though.”

“Mmm. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles tugs Derek down further with a little grin and leans up to kiss him. They lay there together, switching between lazy kisses and fervent ones, for what seems like an eternity—but is probably only about 20 minutes. Derek’s shirt is rucked up as far as it will go while still buttoned, and Stiles’ shirt is rumpled beyond belief and practically hanging off one shoulder.

With a grunt, Derek levers himself up on his knees. But in his haste to unbutton Stiles’ shirt, he slips and ends up sliding off the couch in lieu of falling down on top of Stiles. Stiles, that brat, just laughs. “I do actually have a bed, you know,” he says, rolling over and looking down at Derek. “It’s a queen-size and everything.”

Derek huffs and gets to his feet, stooping down to grab Stiles and pull him up into his arms. “Okay, wow,” Stiles says, wrapping both legs around Derek’s waist, “this is super hot. Just FYI.”

Derek readjusts Stiles with a little grunt—he’s tall and pretty muscular and not exactly light. “Are there stairs? Please tell me there aren’t stairs.”

“Three flights,” Stiles says solemnly, and Derek groans, dropping his forehead against Stiles’ chest as he laughs. “No, it’s just down that hall there, on the right.”

“Thank fuck,” he says, heading in that direction. “This would be a lot less attractive if I was panting.”

Stiles hums and tips his head down to nibble at the shell of Derek’s ear. “I sincerely doubt that.”

Stiles’ bedroom is tidy, even more so than the rest of the house, and Derek can’t help but be a little pleased that he might have cleaned up for him. He drops Stiles on the bed with an exaggerated groan, and Stiles hooks a foot behind his thigh to tug him down, too. He goes eagerly, catching himself on his hands as he ducks down to capture Stiles’ lips in a furious kiss.

Stiles sinks into it for a minute, his lush mouth wonderfully pliant against Derek’s, and then sits up to tip Derek on his back and start unbuttoning his shirt. “I don’t believe that you bake,” he says, pushing the fabric to the side and spreading his hands over Derek’s torso. “Look at you, this is just ridiculous.”

“Look at _you_ ,” he counters, flipping them again, stripping off his shirt, and settling in the vee of Stiles’ legs. He uses one hand to unbutton Stiles’ shirt while palming his crotch with the other.

Stiles laughs and pushes up into his hand. “So what happened to Mr. Patience-is-a-Virtue?”

“I’ve been patient for _weeks_ ,” Derek says as he scrabbles at Stiles’ belt. “Unless—”

“Oh, no,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek’s hands when he freezes, “don’t you dare stop now. Absolutely not, we are getting this show on the _road_.”

Derek laughs, and somehow between the two of them they manage to shove their pants and briefs down with a minimal amount of awkward fumbling.

“I wanna get you back for that teasing torture on the couch,” Stiles says, dragging his fingertips up the side of Derek’s dick. “But I’m afraid my dick is gonna fall off.”

“Next time,” he promises, and Stiles grins. He stretches up to kiss Derek but freezes midway, slowly laying down again.

“Or…,” he says, his gaze calculating and bright. “You just make me come first, and then I’ll take my time with you.”

Derek gulps and slides his hands up Stiles’ thighs. “Yeah—yeah, let’s do that.”

Stiles reaches over to his nightstand and comes back with a small bottle of lube, squirting a little in the palm of Derek’s hand. “It’s not—,” he says, his voice hitching when Derek wraps his hand around him and squeezes, “it’s not gonna take much.”

“Challenge accepted,” Derek says, launching into a merciless rhythm that leaves Stiles squirming and cursing up a storm beneath him. Sure enough, it’s only a couple minutes before Stiles is arching off the bed and coming with a loud cry, his fingers leaving little half-moon marks on Derek’s biceps.

Derek grins, thoroughly proud of the languorous look on Stiles’ face, and kisses him gently. Stiles pants there for a second and then shoves Derek off him with a groan. “Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath and straddling Derek. “Payback time.”

So.

Turns out that Stiles is fucking _diabolical_ , actually. He holds Derek down with his weight and kisses nearly every inch of him, stroking over his skin with those maddening, talented fingers. He keeps returning to Derek’s dick for all-too-brief moments, using his hands and his lips and his tongue just long enough each time to make Derek keen and whine.

After a while, Derek tries to take matters into his own hands, so to speak, but as he tries to sneak his hand down there while Stiles is mouthing at his chest, Stiles snatches it away and presses it into the bed. “Don’t make me tie you down,” he says playfully, but Derek just groans and arches up against his grip. Stiles grins. “Okay, duly noted.”

Derek’s begging now, he thinks—everything is kind of a blurry, Stiles-focused haze—and Stiles looks way too proud of himself as he slowly reduces Derek to a splintered mess. Stiles drags it out of him inch by inch, and by the time he finally falls over the edge, panting and thoroughly wrung-out, Derek probably couldn’t even come up with his own name. Stiles strokes him through it, gently, with the other hand flat on his stomach, and he’s grateful for the point of contact as he shakes apart and then tries to get his breath back.

Stiles is hard again, Derek notices, so he uses the very last of his strength to tug him up, encouraging him to straddle Derek’s chest. Stiles gets the message and groans, bracing against the headboard with one hand and using the other to carefully slide his dick into Derek’s mouth.

It doesn’t take long, not at all, and way too soon Stiles is pulling out of his mouth with a strangled yell and coming all over Derek’s chest. “Holy _shit_ ,” he gasps, slumping off to the side and keeping an arm and a leg slung over Derek’s body. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Derek just mumbles in response—something about pots and kettles—and lies there like a beached whale until his heart rate comes back down to normal and he thinks he could possibly move his limbs again.

Stiles rolls out of bed and stretches, exhibiting about four times the amount of energy that Derek feels. He ducks into the en suite bathroom and comes out a minute later, without bothering to put his boxers back on. He tosses a damp washcloth at Derek, and it lands with an unappetizing _whap_ against his stomach. “Oof.”

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles tosses over his shoulder as he leaves the room. Derek cleans himself off with a grimace—yep, that’s half-dry and starting to feel pretty gross—and leans off the bed to toss the washcloth into the bathroom.

Stiles comes back a minute later with a large plate and two forks, tilting the plate so Derek can see the selection of tarts. “I had to practice with sweet ones, too,” he says with a smirk.

Derek groans and sits up against the headboard, ducking under the covers and scooting over to make room for Stiles. “If you keep feeding me, I might never leave.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that my master plan is working,” he says, with a thoroughly shameless eyebrow waggle, and Derek laughs. Stiles carefully climbs into bed, plastering himself right up against Derek, and brings his knees up to help hold the plate in place.

“These look amazing. What are the flavors?”

“Raspberries and cream on a chocolate crust,” he says, pointing. “It’s a twist on strawberries and cream. This one is key lime, and this is chocolate peanut butter. I made that one just for you.”

Derek smiles and eagerly grabs a fork.

Five minutes later, there are only crumbs left on the plate, save for one big bite of raspberries and cream. “You can have it,” they both say in unison, and with a laugh, Stiles picks it up.

“No, you take it.” He holds it out, but as Derek obediently leans forward to eat it out of his hand, Stiles darts forward and smears him in the face. He cracks up, apparently very pleased with himself, and barely manages to eke out, “you have whipped cream on your nose.”

Rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, Derek snatches the end of the tart out of Stiles’ hand and glares at him. “I have half a mind to just shove this in your face. But a, then I wouldn’t get to eat it, and b, we’d probably have to get up to change the sheets. And I’d rather not move right now.”

Stiles nods sagely. “So I can get away with stuff due to your laziness,” he says. “Good to know.”

“And gluttony,” Derek adds, through a mouthful of raspberries.

“There are other things I’d rather have you shove in my face, anyway,” Stiles says, smirking, and Derek rolls his eyes as he reaches over to set the empty plate on the nightstand.

“Keep trying to start food fights and I sure will.”

“What if I begged instead?”

Derek frowns and digs his fingers into Stiles’ ribs, making him laugh and squirm away. “I am very full and very tired. Please stop being so irresistible.”

“Sorry,” he says loftily. “It just isn’t something I can turn off. I’m sure you understand.”

“No, I can turn mine off,” Derek deadpans, sliding down in the bed and dragging Stiles with him. “Just like I’m doing now, see? Shh.”

Stiles wrangles them into a spooning position and wiggles his ass against Derek’s hips. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s working.”

“I’ll just have to be meaner then,” he says, slumping over further so that most of his weight is resting on Stiles, but he just laughs.

“You don’t have a mean bone in your _body_. Grumpy, sure, but I like grumpy.”

“I can be mean!”

“You’re just grumpy to cover up the fact that you’re such a squishy marshmallow inside.”

“You’re ruining my image,” he complains.

“S’good, I like marshmallows,” Stiles says, slurring a little, and Derek smiles.

“Now you’re not making any sense. Go to sleep.”

Stiles mumbles into his pillow—something about s’mores?—and Derek scratches his back until he’s all the way asleep.

* * *

Stiles wins, of course, and 18 months later, he and Derek open a little bakery, tucked on a side street in Fulham, called John Dough. Stiles begs for _weeks_ about that name, and Derek is able to wheedle lots of blow jobs out of him while he’s “still making up his mind.” He gives in, though, just as he knew he would from the very beginning because he is completely incapable of denying Stiles anything. (Plus, it turns out that Stiles’ dad is named John, and even though he’s in his 30s, Derek is still embarrassingly eager to gain points from his boyfriend’s dad.)

The bakery is popular, partly due to Stiles’ notoriety in the UK but mostly because everything he makes is really fucking delicious. They sell the chocolate chip-peanut butter-oatmeal cookies that they first made together as “love cookies”—Derek doesn’t even try to argue that one—and Derek makes a lot of bread with the now-famous John Dough, who’s still alive and kicking.

One Thursday night, Stiles drags him out to the English countryside on the back of a very flimsy excuse—looking at a meteor shower, Stiles, really?—but Derek plays along, and he doesn’t even expect it when they reach the GBBO filming site for the current season and then Stiles drops to one knee in the middle of the tent. He maybe cries a little bit, and then that makes _Stiles_ cry, and since it turns out that all their friends and family are there for a surprise engagement party—not to _mention_ Paul and Mary and Mel and Sue and various other members of the crew—it’s pretty embarrassing for everyone involved. They even make the back pages of the tabloids, “Love Story Boils Over in GBBO Tent,” and Stiles buys 10 copies and proudly hangs a framed version on the wall of the bakery.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in one day while watching a GBBO marathon…it was a good day.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on the tumbles!](http://leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/)


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